Weakness
by CoryphaeusRex
Summary: It is Lu Bu's greatest weakness, and his greatest shame. Lu Bu/Diao Chan, oneshot, PWP, M rated for a reason. Written as a challenge from TheBritt, who didn't believe I could accomplish het.


**Author's Notes & Disclaimer:** I don't own Dynasty Warriors. I don't even play the damn thing. However, in the finest and most complete break with tradition, this is a Lu Bu/Diao Chan fic. Het! What am I thinking? Anyway, this story is M rated for all the usual reasons. There is sex, lots of it, and fleeting thoughts of rape. If you can't handle either of these, or the thought of Lu Bu being completely pussywhipped by Diao Chan, don't read. However, if you fancy it, do read and review, let me know whether I should give up this fandom entirely or carry on into the uncharted waters of DW slash.

I've used European terms for Lu Bu's items of armour, because after several hours of searching the internet I can't for the life of me find Chinese terms. Oh, and I'm using DW6 outfits, in case anyone actually cares.

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It is Lu Bu's greatest weakness, and his greatest shame.

Those who know him all seem to assume he brings control and command to all areas of his life, that he never stops bellowing orders until he sleeps. Those who have fought him and survived, those lucky few, they see him as a devil, and they don't think he even does something so human as sleep. Surely, a man like that doesn't allow himself to be vulnerable. Surely he stalks the hallways of his fortress at night, while everyone else sleeps uneasily in their beds.

But Lu Bu is human, after all, and his weakness is the most human weakness a man could ever have.

Diao Chan.

At the centre of the whirling hurricane of rage, beneath the black armour and the barked orders and the vortex of war, in the eye of the storm, there she is. She holds his heart in her tiny, slender hands, and by Heaven he wishes it wasn't so. He sometimes wishes he could carve out his heart and leave it behind him where it belongs, and truly lose himself in battle and blood and glory. But at the same time he almost enjoys having this one thing, this one secret thing, that weakens him at the knees and makes his heart skip beats.

After his battles, when he is sweating and exhausted and dripping with other people's blood, she undresses him, her fingers caressing each piece of painted iron as though it is a child, returned home unscathed. First, she removes his helmet, and as he runs a hand over his hair, unsticking it from his forehead, she casually ignores him. Her hands remain clean as she straightens out the long, red feathers and sets the piece atop its stand, carefully.

Next, the huge black pauldrons. At first, she staggered under the weight, but now she hangs them on the stand without a sound. There is always silence during this ceremony, both to allow Lu Bu to recover his voice, hoarse from shouting at opponents on the battlefield, and also because Diao Chan appreciates the quiet.

Lu Bu's breathing is just another kind of music to her.

She unties the gorget, her arms around his neck in an almost intimate pose, but she maintains her distance from the bloody mess at the front of his armour. Lu Bu knows better than to try to hold her, distract her from her task and sully her clothing and skin with the blood of the dead. She holds her only leverage over him, and she has been known to stop her ritual if he displeases her, barring her bedroom door and leaving him to roam the fortress like a rampaging bull, all testosterone and pent-up aggression and desire. It never ends well.

Today, he manages to resist, keeping his arms by his sides as she steps around him, untying with her nimble fingers the red cord which holds the cuirass together. The cord is wet, and as she runs it through her fingers it leaves a streak of dark red on her hands. The end of the cord drips onto the wooden floor, creating a small puddle of blood at Diao Chan's feet as she wrings the blood from it. She hangs the cuirass up, after first running her palm over the black surface, now shining with a reddish tint. Her palms are red, the blood of the weak soaking into the lines of her hands.

Now he is unarmoured, having cast aside his great iron boots before being allowed to enter the room. Diao Chan will suffer blood on her floor but she will not tolerate those boots. The reasoning of women, Lu Bu supposes. But as she reaches to rid him of his black robe, the reasoning of women and the fate of his boots is irrelevant. All that matters is that here, and now, the most beautiful woman in all the Three Kingdoms is undressing him, giving her time to care for him.

His bloody robe has stained Diao Chan's hands further, and although he is now bare-chested, he is still not deemed suitably purified, and she cleans blood and war paint indiscriminately, wringing out the cloth and turning the bowl of water dark pink. She washes out his wounds, though there are never many, and once her palms are lily-white again, she finally turns her attention to him, as though he has only just entered the room.

He freezes under her gaze, suddenly a teenage boy again, all self-doubt and repressed desire. Her moods are so changeable, it might harm his cause to embrace her, or it might be the key to unlocking her love. He doesn't know, and it worries him. He thinks of himself as a simple man, and when he is fighting, things are equally simple. Diao Chan complicates his world, and yet, even when he is utterly lost and confused by her changing moods, he still chases her, eternally too clumsy and too stupid.

They never make love before battle. Lu Bu thinks it is because it will dull his senses and slow his reflexes. He doesn't know that it is Diao Chan's surefire way of bringing him back to her every time. It is his incentive to stay alive, to win, to be the best on the field. And it always works. He comes back, blades bloody and muscles weary, and they go through this long, silent ritual – the most unwelcoming welcome any soldier could receive.

But it's worth it just for this, as he puts his arms around her, holding her fragile body as though she may shatter in his grip at any moment. He can smell the perfume of her hair, and it intoxicates him. The presence of her warm body causes fleeting thoughts to flash in and out of focus in his head. He could overpower her. He could force her to bend to his will, and he could tear her clothes off and take her, hard, ignoring her small fists hammering at his iron-hard body like a minor irritating insect. But he never would, no matter how difficult it becomes when she locks him out, or when she teases him and does not deliver on her promises.

She kisses him, lightly, and her lips carry the taste of summer and the heady rush that he is used to encountering at the start of a battle. Adrenaline floods his system, his heart beat quickens and the sweat on his skin turns cold. Every nerve in his body is alert, he can feel her soft breasts against his chest, leaning against him as though she is about to lose her balance. She is far too perfect a dancer for that, of course, and although she has to stand on her toes to kiss him while they are both standing, she has ways of remedying that.

She unties her long skirt, and lets it fall to the floor. In the slowly setting sun, the gold chain around her waist glitters, and Lu Bu finds his eyes drawn to it, then lower, to the small triangle of hair that captivates his attention more than any gold could. She sits on the bed, the thin black silk that covers her legs making a pleasant rustling sound against the sheets. With one crooked finger, she beckons him over. He follows, like a fish being drawn on a line, until he is looming over her, his unnatural height only emphasised by her seated position.

Her thin fingers unlace another cord, and he stands naked before her, every crevice between his muscles thrown into sharp relief by the setting sun. His skin gleams golden in the half-light, and he knows he looks like a man that Diao Chan can be proud of. She seems to think so too, her delicate lips curving up in a smile as she runs her hands over the sharp lines of his hips. He knows he's getting hard, but oddly that's the one thing he isn't embarrassed about when he's with Diao Chan. He's more worried about saying something wrong, which is why he usually doesn't say anything at all.

She explores the vast landscape of his skin for almost a full, silent minute, noting the few bruises he has sustained through his thick armour. Her fingers only lightly dust over the purpling skin, but he is still sore and weary from the battle, and he has to stop himself from flinching. He has been standing up for too long, and his muscles are begging him to just _rest_.

Diao Chan senses his weariness, as she lays her palm flat against his stomach, indicating, in their strange, silent language, that he should kneel. Now, their faces are almost level, but Diao Chan is just about looking down on the mighty warrior before her. She spreads her legs, allowing him to look at the prize she is offering him, the reward for his overwhelming victory. He bows his head, tugging briefly at the golden chain with his teeth, before lowering his mouth to where she wants it to be.

He laps at her, teasing her with the tip of his tongue, circling the hot nub of flesh that warms under his mouth. He can taste her delicious, sweet flavour, and over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears he can hear a satisfied noise fall from her lips, the seal of approval he is always chasing after, and so rarely receives. Her hands wind into his hair, still slick with the sweat of the fight, and he knows he is doing something right. She comes under his tongue, hips involuntarily bucking forwards and fingers clenching in his hair. He smiles through the minor pain, and kisses the inside of her thigh as he draws away and straightens his back in order to look her in the eye.

She holds out her hand, caressing his chin for a brief moment before applying the slightest of pressures, a silent command. He stands, and she rises also, turning the two of them around so that he is now closer to the bed. He lies down, responding to a nudge from her small hand. She climbs atop him, straddling his stomach, not allowing him inside her just yet. She takes hold of his wrists and, like a child manoeuvring a doll, she puts his hands at the elaborate golden clasp which adorns her chest. He unfastens it, trying to concentrate with her sitting astride him. He can feel her moistness against his stomach, and he's now rock-hard, wanting it so badly he could just pin her down, mount her like a wild animal and fuck her until she couldn't walk.

But, as always, he doesn't, and the clasp comes undone easily, as he sends a silent prayer of thanks to Heaven. Her small breasts are freed, as she shrugs the purple silk off, and it crumples to the bed. She is now naked but for her long gloves and her long stockings, and Lu Bu admires her lithe frame in the fading light. She kneels up, and moves herself so she is just above his erection. She lowers herself down, just enough that he can feel the heat of her on the head of his cock. His fists clench on the sheets, fighting the urge to grab her hips and slam her all the way down, so he can feel that tight, wet heat around him, and hear her scream.

She moves her hips in slow circles, the muscles in her thighs straining a little but not relaxing, because to relax would be to give in, and she has to tease Lu Bu just a little more for that. She continues to torment and tease until this man, this mightiest of all men, is biting his lip to keep from crying out, shivering and sweating all at the same time as though he is running a fever. This is Diao Chan's power, and she holds it over him, forcing him to do her bidding.

She lowers herself down, and Lu Bu groans at the sensation, almost letting go right there and then. He tries to breathe, deeply and slowly, but Diao Chan is riding him now, and the urge to hold his breath is strong. Hesitantly, he lays his huge, rough hands on her hips, tan against white, and she allows them to remain there. He moves her, and she allows him to do so, in a pace which becomes faster and faster, her breasts bouncing and hair coming loose from its elaborate style.

She has allowed herself to become helpless, and in doing so she has lost all her control over Lu Bu. Sometimes she allows this, like tonight, and she lets herself be used, purple bruises appearing on her white skin as her lover's tenderness is buried beneath burning lust. She cries out, her usually sultry voice sounding agonized. There's no pain, only the kind that comes with too much pleasure, with every receptor working on overdrive and every sensation magnified a thousand times. There are no words for what she is feeling, only that it is hot and red and instinctual. She comes, again, screaming and gasping his name as she does. Feeling her clench around him, Lu Bu lets out a raw, guttural noise, and thrusts deep inside her, all his battle-weariness releasing at the same time as his seed.

For a single, perfect, crystalline moment, they remain, locked in a tableau of ecstasy. Diao Chan's pretty face is contorted, still beautiful to behold but obviously on the very knife-edge of an overload. Lu Bu's eyes are half-lidded, they would be closed but he can't quite bear to take his eyes off Diao Chan's exquisite body. Her thighs are clamped, vice-like, around his body, and his thick fingers are digging into the soft, yielding flesh of her hips.

And then the moment collapses in on itself. Diao Chan, bedraggled and exhausted, drapes herself over her lover, her long hair soaking up the sweat cooling on his skin. Lu Bu gently lifts her up, and lays her down beside him. He pulls the silken sheets, sweat-soaked and clinging, over both of their bodies, and he enfolds Diao Chan in his strong arms.

Lu Bu sleeps, and his face is open and unguarded as he lies beside his beloved Diao Chan. He looks, in the darkness, like the boy he was when he first laid eyes on her, struck speechless by her ethereal beauty. The blood on the armour drips onto the floor, cools on the black iron, crusts and dries. The only sound to be heard is the sound of breathing; Lu Bu's deep, rumbling snores and Diao Chan's light, almost musical breathing.

No one sees the great warrior as he rests.


End file.
